


take your chances

by ketabat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Billy Hargrove Lives, Fist Fights, Healing, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Post-Season/Series 03, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketabat/pseuds/ketabat
Summary: It’s been sixty-three days, and Neil’s patience is like a ruler. You can only bend it so much before it breaks.or, billy and steve's second fist fight.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 119





	take your chances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plistommy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plistommy/gifts).



> EVI PLANTED THIS IN MY HEAD. that's all i have to say.

It’s been sixty-three days since Billy Hargrove was discharged from the hospital. Sixty-three days since he moved from loathing himself between four white walls to loathing himself in the seclusion of his room. The kind professionalism that painted the faces of white-donned nurses as they asked him _if he’s feeling better today_ and if he’s _ready for today’s walk_ turned to irritated patience twisting his father’s features as he asked him how he’s doing, if he’s ready to start school again.

They hadn’t told him what actually went down. Blamed the scars disfiguring Billy’s body on the fire when he went in to save chief Hopper’s daughter. Neil didn’t care for Billy’s wellbeing as much as he did for gloating about his son’s heroism. Billy didn’t care. Doesn’t care for much these days.

Life goes on.

He silently helps Susan with the dishes and ignores Neil’s sexist gaze. He helps with woodwork when Neil tells him to. Even if his hands shake when he holds the hammer.

That’s as far as it goes. His helpfulness is confined to the house’s walls. And Susan’s been patient. She’d bring his food to his room every day, she’d clean his laundry although she doesn’t have to. He’s not her fucking son. Max doesn’t so much as speak to him when she hands him his pills and a glass of water. Billy thinks she hates looking at what’s become of him.

Neil’s been silent. He’s never been a lenient father. But it doesn’t lessen Billy’s appreciation.

It’s been sixty-three days, and Neil’s patience is like a ruler. You can only bend it so much before it breaks.

Neil opens the door to Billy’s room and throws the camaro’s keys at him. “Go pick up your sister. I have work.”

He doesn’t give Billy the chance to reason with him. To say no. Just– leaves.

Billy plays with the key, runs a finger over the cuts and grooves on it. His jaw locks, bile rising up in his throat at the merest idea of being behind a wheel. Of revving an engine. Of the smell of gas. The only thing he wants to do with that Camaro is drive it off a cliff.

His hand closes around the key, so hard its ridges dig into the palm of his hand. He curses.

**…**

“How the fuck do you not know _The Hitcher?”_

Steve rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m just not a big movie guy,” he waves a hand. “I’ll watch it when I have the time.”

Robin looks at him from over his car. “You’re not a big movie guy? Hate to break it to you, but you work at a movie store. You have to have some knowledge. And what do you mean _when you have time?_ You don’t even have a life outside our friendship.”

Steve has a response to that. Something witty and ground-breaking that’ll shut Robin up, but his comeback dries up on his tongue when he catches sight of Max. She’s leaning back against the wall next to the arcade, one foot pressed to it. She’s holding her skateboard, looking around with a near-permanent frown between her brows. “Hey uh. I’ll be right back,” Steve states, eyes not leaving her. He hears more than sees Robin roll her eyes as he walks over to Max. “Hey.”

Max looks at him. Then away. “Hi.”

Steve pushes his hands into his pockets and tilts his head to catch her eye. “You okay? Need a lift?”

“No,” she replies. She wipes her sleeve over her face like she’d been crying. Steve doesn’t know what to make of it, so he steps a little closer.

“Hey, come on, I’ll give you a ride home and–”

“Y’know. I thought he’d change,” Max cuts in. “Thought the shit that happened last year would, I don’t know, bring us closer. And I– I _know_ he’s in pain and I know I shouldn’t be complaining because at least he’s _alive,_ right?” her laugh’s teary and humourless. “He’s just been an insufferable jerk. From the bathroom to his room and from his room to the bathroom. I wish he’d— _say_ something. _Do_ something. I’m sick of his stupid _fucking_ face, all blank and sad and I thought if I told mom to let him drive me home today. I thought we’d be able to talk. But I guess not.”

Steve has a lot to say to that. It’s surprising that most of it is in defense of Billy. He opens his mouth to start but closes it a second later because Max needs to let her anger out for good, not for all of it to be crammed back down her throat with words that invalidate how she feels. So, Steve reaches out to take the skateboard from her. She lets him. Then she pushes herself off the wall and beats him to his car.

**…**

Billy can’t say he’s surprised when his door slams open, swinging on its hinges so hard it bangs against the wall and nearly slams into Neil's face hadn’t he pushed it open again to step inside. Billy looks away from the cracks in his ceiling to spare his father a glance.

“Why didn’t you pick up your sister?”

Any time before Starcourt, Billy would’ve responded with _she’s not my sister or, it’s not my job, I’m not her chauffeur._ Right now, Billy just shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it,” he says. It’s probably the most he’s said to him in a single sentence since he came back.

"Didn’t–” Neil cuts himself short and licks over his lips, fingers running through his hair. “I’ve been _patient_ with you, Billy.”

Billy looks back at the ceiling.

“You haven’t been going to school. Susan’s a second away from hand-feeding you. I’ve been patient. Sit up and look at me when I _speak_ to you.”

Billy inhales deeply. Does as told. Looks at his dad, swallows past the lump in his throat. “Is she home?”

“Yes,” Neil answers.

“Then where’s the fucking problem?” Billy frowns, lifting his shoulders momentarily.

“Your friend Steve Harrington drove her home,” there’s a pause. “At eight pm.”

“Okay?”

Neil’s hand holding his face doesn’t come as a surprise to Billy. But the urge to recoil and bury his face in his knees is. All vestiges of carelessness leave his face. “Sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. A flash of short-lasting guilt crosses Neil’s features. His fingers remain tight, digging into Billy’s cheeks and jaw as he leans in close. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. Am I making myself clear?”

Billy nods. “Yessir.”

The way Neil lets go of his face is much gentler than the way his nails drew crescents in his skin. “Good,” he says. He claps Billy on the shoulder and steps back. “Good.”

…

Billy’s car has been in the driveway for months. Fixed and squeaky clean and ready to be used.

Billy doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to drive again.

He pointedly avoids looking at it when he walks through the driveway. It’s a little chilly out. Billy’s anger does wonders warming him, makes his blood run hot through his veins and under his skin.

He walks. Just walks. Keeps walking despite the turmoil he’s in. It’s been a while since he’s been out, especially alone. Especially at night.

He’s numb. Can’t be bothered to look behind him in case anyone – any _thing_ – is on his heel. Can’t be bothered to do anything other than put a foot in front of the other until he’s at Harrington’s door.

And he knocks.

There’s shuffling. The TV volume goes lower. There’s bare-footed padding. The door opens.

Steve stares. Opens his mouth to say something but Billy doesn’t let him. Socks him in the jaw before he’s on him.

And Steve—

Steve fucking _lets_ him. Doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t say anything or do anything to shield himself.

It’s— far from cathartic. Just adds to the pile of shit Billy’s been rolling in for the past sixty-three days. Makes his gut twist. Makes him punch harder.

It feels like chugging down bottles after bottles of water to quench an unquenchable thirst.

The first time was easier. The first time, Steve had hit him the same spot his father had. The first time, Steve’s ‘get out’ had paralleled Neil’s ‘find your sister’, made Billy feel like a _dog_. The first time, Steve had fought back. The first time, there was someone to stop Billy.

Now he’s just raining punches down on him and he’s _Steve_. And he’s not _fighting back_. And there’s no one to stick a needle in Billy’s neck.

Steve’s face is bloody, and Billy’s knuckles hurt, and Steve’s hands are on his elbows. Fucking _comforting_. Because while Susan was at home taking care of Max and Neil was at work _providing for the family,_ Steve goddamned _fucking_ Harrington was the one beside Billy’s hospital bed. _Comforting._ Steve was the one to drive him home when he was discharged from the hospital. Steve was the one who helped him out the car and into his house and all the way up to his room. Steve was the one who asked him if he needed anything and touched the back of his fingers to his head to check his temperature. Steve. It was all _Steve_ and now Billy’s on top of him, beating on him for taking care of his sister the way he took care of _him_ and—

Billy stops. Stares. Like some fucking painter admiring his canvas. Steve stares back. Billy can feel warmth streaking down his cheeks. He lifts a hand, tries wiping the blood off Steve’s face. Smudges it further. Steve closes his eyes. Lets him touch. Lets him fucking _destroy._

“‘M sorry,” Billy whispers. “So sorry. So fucking sorry.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. His eyes stay shut.

Billy’s shoulders shake, the whole situation he’s dragged himself into managing to wrench a cry right out of his chest. Out of his very fucking core. And once it starts— he can’t stop. He cries. Shakes with it. Breathes.

Steve blinks up at him. Then he lifts a hand, puts it down before he can do something stupid, something that’ll have his brains decorating his wooden floorboards.

Billy dismounts him. And like a puppet cut loose, he slumps, burying his face in his hands.

Steve kicks the door shut with his toes and sits up. “I– I’ll. Be right back. Don’t—” he stands to his feet. Can’t feel through the pain in his face. “Don’t go anywhere. Just. Stay where you are.”

Billy doesn’t show any sign of hearing him. So Steve leaves for the bathroom. He washes his face and rinses his mouth before leaning his weight on the sink with a heavy sigh. His head hangs and his eyes close through the throbbing in his temples.

Max has been trying to draw reactions out of him since he came back in pieces. so this has to count for _something._ Steve sucks it up and reemerges from the bathroom with his first aid kit. He doesn’t ask Billy to sit on the couch, doesn’t ask him if he wants something to eat or if he’s thirsty. Doesn’t even ask him if he’s okay.

He sits down next to him, cross-legged, and reaches for his hand. Billy tries shrugging him off. Steve doesn’t let him. Keeps his grip tight until Billy gives up. “I don’t need your hospitality, Harrington. I’m not fucking handicapped.”

“Annoying is what you are,” Steve mutters. Because yeah, he wants to help and _yeah,_ he admires Billy much more than he’s willing to admit. But he doesn’t _pity him_ and he won’t be kind just because Billy’s all fucked up.

Billy doesn’t say anything. Lets Steve sanitize the cuts on his knuckles and wrap his hands up. “Can’t believe I’m doing this after you showed up at my door to assault me,” he looks up, lips pursed. "How are things at home?

“I already have a therapist.”

Steve nods.

“Fucked,” Billy says after a moment.

Steve pushes his hair away from his face using the back of his wrist. “Are you going to come here and bash my face in every time things are _fucked?_ ”

Billy’s molars grate together, jaw clenching and unclenching. "Maybe. Your face’s purgative.

Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Better lock my doors then.”

“You better,” Billy endorses halfheartedly. “Can I crash?”

Steve squints an eye, putting Billy’s hand down neatly. “So you come here, beat the shit out of me then expect me to let you sleep over? Do you have any sense of consistency?”

“No.”

Steve gapes. Then waves a hand. “Fine. Whatever. Yeah.” He gets up and leaves Billy to help himself up.

Billy isn’t good at apologies. If he can let a _sorry_ out, it sounds off and if he can get it to sound _right_ , he has to add something shitty to compensate his dignity for the utter ignominy of the apology. Which kind of invalidates it altogether.

So. Instead he says, “Have you eaten?”

Steve half-turns to look at him, then shrugs. “Think I have some leftovers from last night.”

“Leftovers, _King?_ ” Billy stands up and brushes his backside with bandaged hands. “I’ll cook.”

Steve blinks, seemingly confused. “You gonna poison me, Hargrove?”

“You’ll just have to take your chances, huh?”

And Maybe. Maybe he doesn’t just mean that about the food.

**Author's Note:**

> im on [tumblr!](https://inkedplume.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
